HENRY
He's too awash with his own pain and anger, his own frustrating failures, never being able to get things quite right. Never. So well-intentioned, his father had always scolded him for it. Intentions mean nothing when, in the end... well, just take a look around.
She tells him that it isn't, it isn't his fault, and he shakes with the release of a heavier, reluctant sob. His head shakes and his eyes squeeze shut, and he wants to argue. He wants to tell her over and over again that he's a failure, that this was his fault, that he could've and should've done something. But he can't, he can't tell her that because it wouldn't bring them back. It wouldn't make any of this right. There's nothing that can. They're gone and there's nothing.
Henry leans into her, grabbing her with hands that need her strength so desperately that he almost claws at her. "I can't be here anymore, Aisha," it's almost urgent, but the urgency, the anxiety is smothered in a thick coat of grief.
She tells him that it isn't, it isn't his fault, and he shakes with the release of a heavier, reluctant sob. His head shakes and his eyes squeeze shut, and he wants to argue. He wants to tell her over and over again that he's a failure, that this was his fault, that he could've and should've done something. But he can't, he can't tell her that because it wouldn't bring them back. It wouldn't make any of this right. There's nothing that can. They're gone and there's nothing.
Henry leans into her, grabbing her with hands that need her strength so desperately that he almost claws at her. "I can't be here anymore, Aisha," it's almost urgent, but the urgency, the anxiety is smothered in a thick coat of grief.
wherever you run, you see all you leave behind you
lies inside anyone you open
lies inside anyone you open
